Death of a teacher

My first teacher was a cowherd. Another teacher gave up trousers, put on a lungi, and did farming- so I heard. I don’t have the courage to ask, the teacher that was killed by police beating today– who was he?

Was he the hero of my school-going youth? Did he teach me in my youth? What did his face look like?

Last night I dreamt that someone close to me had died. All night, I wanted to go near him. Now, he is dead from the police water cannon.

That teacher was a man valued the same as a foreign dog’s back leg. Who is he? Who is he to us?

Senior brothers and sisters, one of our parents has been murdered today by the state.

Come let us celebrate, and make a terrible noise.

Take the bones of this hunger-maddened, protesting teacher to fashion a new weapon.

From the core of our existence, let us express our hatred for the killing monsters of the state.